


what didn't kill us

by hellstrider



Series: Scars 'verse [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Episode: s08e01 Winterfell, First Time Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jon makes sacrifices, Jon remembers he's a wolf, M/M, No Jon doesn't fuck Dany, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Scars Verse, Tormund is Understandably Turned On, Weirdest plot choice ever but ok, and has teeth, general dany warning, whew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19244266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: this is the game, and he is a wolf.





	what didn't kill us

**Author's Note:**

> more scars 'verse!!! the love this series is getting is beyond anything i could have anticipated, i love you all so much xoxo
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT;;; my friend tally and i have a discord for jonmund!!!!! come join and yell!!!  
> https://t.co/mVsyaZIYoj

“She isn’t going to send her army.”

Jon looks to Daenerys. The white-haired queen gazes out across the sea as King’s Landing fades across the horizon, and with it the stench of the Iron Throne.

“No,” Jon agrees quietly. “I’m sorry. It was all for nothing.”

“Not for nothing.” Daenerys arches a brow. “I saw the dead. You gained an ally, Jon Snow.”

He tries for a smile. Fails. “Hopefully a friend.”

Daenerys turns to look at him, and her porcelain face softens when her lips curve. It’s a smile that hides fangs and fire.

“Perhaps a friend yet.” Dany looks out to the sea once more, where her two remaining dragons twirl and dance around one another. “I suppose I should be glad she refused. One more reason to rip her out, root and stem. Will the people be so eager to support a queen that did nothing to stop the dead?”

 _Y_ _ou didn’t want to help us either,_ Jon thinks, and the voice in his head sounds like Tormund’s.

The wildling is somewhere below decks with Davos and Gendry and the rest, far from the piercing gaze of Daenerys Targaryen but still in the realm of her dragons and her fire. Jon holds his tongue still and wishes he could transport Tormund away somewhere safe by force of sheer will alone.

“Tell me, Jon Snow.” The dragon queen regards him coolly. “When I win your war of the dead for you, will you turn to help me take what is mine?”

Jon clenches his jaw. _This is your war, too,_ he doesn’t say. _The north calls me king, but you will kill me before they put a crown on my head._

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, trailing one fine, delicate hand over the railing as she sidles away, towards the prow of the ship. Her dragons duck and soar over the water and Jon hates the sight of them as much as he needs them. When she next speaks, it sends ice through Jon’s veins and freezes his lungs.

“It is so terrible, isn’t it?” Daenerys tilts her head as she watches her scaled children dance. “Having so much to lose. And you do. You have so very much to lose.”

Her eyes might as well be the same stone they built her dark castle from when they find him.

“It is why you came to me in the first place,” she says quietly, and she’s so soft, this dragon queen, so startlingly young at times that it threatens to take his knees out from beneath him. “You came to me because you had too much to lose. We need one another, you know.”

The sweetness of her almost makes him forget that her pleas are just more threats, more weapons that all the lords and kings use in their game of thrones. Daenerys smells of smoke and roses when she comes close, one cool hand cupping his cheek, as if she’s allowed to it.

“Help me build a new world, Jon Snow,” she whispers. “One where you will not have to lose. I wouldn’t wish this pain on you. On anyone. My _child_ lies in the cold waters of the north, and I did it for _you,_ because you are _mine._ Don’t you see?”

Jon tries not to recoil from her touch. “I will do what I must to protect my people,” he says lowly. “You say I have much to lose, and it’s true. I’m no stranger to it. This war has consumed my family, consumed too many I care about.”

It’s not the answer she wants, and he knows it. He can see the shutters come down behind her eyes and her hand slips away from his face.

“You and _your people_ are a part of the seven kingdoms,” Daenerys says then. “ _My_ kingdoms. Perhaps the best thing you could do for _them_ is put aside your pride. I have lost my heart before, and I would truly hate to see you suffer that.”

Her hand grips his then, and though her face is sweet, and her voice is soft, her words are dragonfire.

“But in the end, I suppose we all must suffer for what we want. Mustn’t we?”

_Everyone but you, it seems._

And then the dragon queen is gone, swaying over the deck as Ser Jorah emerges from below. Jon looks out to the beasts writhing over the sea and tries not to choke on the anger rising in his throat, or let the fear turn him into a fool. He stays out on the deck as the light fades, until there’s a far bigger and gentler hand that lights on the nape of his neck.

“Getting colder, little crow.”

_Isn’t it?_

Jon turns to look at his lover and Tormund’s blue eyes reflect the wild of the sea, the moonlight playing over the waves. Wool bunches up in Jon’s chest and he reaches up to grip the wildling’s arm, the most they can do out in the open like this.

“I’ll be down,” Jon says quietly. “Wait up for me?”

“Always.”

Tormund eyes him and Jon knows he can smell the anxiety on him as a wolf scents a weak member of the pack. The wildling catches Jon’s chin and studies his face, and Jon – Jon hates that he’ll have to keep this from him, this thing that hangs over him like a blade above a throat, but it’s for the best. He manages to give Tormund a tired smile, which doesn’t budge him either way, into relief or further worry.

“You have me, little crow,” the wildling says lowly. “Always remember that.”

Jon wants so badly to kiss him. He doesn’t.

“I know, Tor. I’ll be down.”

Tormund arches a brow but doesn’t push. Jon presses a hand to his chest briefly before he goes, leaving him feeling empty and too loose. Jon leans against the railing of the ship and breathes deep, knees already aching before they have to hit the ground of his own kingdom.

When he finally does slip into Tormund’s cabin, the wildling is half asleep. He stirs when Jon slides into the furs and he coaxes him awake, draws him between his legs and clutches him as close as he can. The game has consumed him, began to seep in the moment Jon decided to sail to Dragonstone at the beckoning of the woman calling herself queen.

The game has consumed him, but he is a wolf. All but Tormund forget he is still a wolf, one carved from mountain stone and ice, of pain and loneliness that rebuilt his bones with steel for marrow. Jon buries a cry in Tormund’s shoulder and scores his hands down his spine, and the ice becomes fire.

He will play this damned game - for a time. Jon gazes at the wildling above him and thinks he’s almost feral with spite for it when he drags Tormund down for a biting, burning kiss. This is _his,_ he thinks fiercely; this is his, and no King of ice or Queen of fire could take it from him.

Daenerys may have fangs, but so does he.

They reach Winterfell and Jon breathes easier, but his resolve only hardens when he sees the faces of his people as he rides beside Daenerys through his kingdom. The faces of northerners and wildlings alike, the people he died for and would die for again.

She cannot understand, he thinks, as he watches Tormund reunite with his wildlings and watches his sister sweep down from the open-air corridor to meet them. The dragon queen cannot understand, Jon thinks, when he sees Bran for the first time in years and all the air punches out of his lungs.

His little brother, grown, and Jon presses a fierce kiss to his brow with an ache at the back of his throat. Bran gazes at him with heaviness in his brown eyes, stares at him and through him, and when he speaks, it is both his brother and not. Jon has missed so much, too much.

“Arya’s here,” Sansa tells him when she hugs him close and tight, as if she was terrified he wouldn’t come back.

Jon feels like his legs have been kicked out from beneath him and he rasps, “where is she?”

Sansa smiles faintly but it's hollow as her eyes already track the white-haired dragon queen across the courtyard. “I never know. She’ll find you.”

It’s like coming to life again, knowing they three survived to come back home. To their true home.

She cannot understand, this queen of fire, that one does not make an enemy from wolves of ice. Sansa is cool when she greets Daenerys and Jon lays a hand on the queen’s back and tries to reassure her with a, “she’s wary of strangers,” that she clearly doesn’t believe.

When Jon returns from getting Daenerys and her people settled, he wanders to the Godswood, his father’s chapel, and finds a familiar figure already standing beneath the red, red leaves. He’s once again rendered breathless with emotion when Arya turns, one clever brow cocked. She’s both young and old all at once, nearly as tall as he is now, elegant and deadly.

And then her face breaks into a smile and she’s all of ten years old again as Jon sweeps her up into a tight, swirling hug. Tears burn his eyes and his fierce little sister even looks a tad misty when he sets her down to cup her face.

“Look at you,” he manages. “Still got your Needle?”

 “Right here,” Arya answers, and Jon brings her close to kiss her brow.

Daenerys says he has much to lose, and that is what makes him strong.

They gather all in the Great Hall. They gather, and Jon looks towards Tormund, sat with his wildlings; those blue eyes rove over him and a smirk flickers across his lover’s face. Jon returns it but doesn’t feel it, and Tormund’s eyes narrow.

Edd and Sam sit nearby, Gilly bouncing little Sam on her leg. Jon thinks of them, of all of them, and his teeth sharpen when the dragon queen enters, sweeping down the hall with her retinue behind her.

Lords and Ladies of the North surround him, and his siblings sit at the high table and leave a chair between them for him. Daenerys sits at the end, Tyrion beside her, watching the proceedings with a vaguely concerned and overwhelmed glaze to her eyes.

Jon does not sit. He meets Davos’ gaze behind the table and the smuggler arches a questioning brow. Perhaps Jon should’ve told him, he thinks. Davos would’ve stopped him. Tormund would’ve stopped him.

Life surrounds him, and fire wrapped inside things of death wait outside Winterfell’s walls.

This is the game, and he is a wolf.

“Lords of the North,” he calls over the crowd, and the hall goes immediately silent. “The Long Night is coming. But now, we go into it with renewed hope. I bring to you Queen Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, Mother of Dragons – a woman to whom I owe my very life.”

He sees them all here, their faces, faces he knows and faces he’s yet to learn. Jon’s throat aches and his bones are sore already. Jon owes his life to his wildling and the uncle who treated him like a son, but he will give it instead to Daenerys Targaryen, in exchange for all of theirs here.

“We will face the Long Night together,” Jon continues; he feels as if he’s drifting out of his own body as he speaks, watching it all play out. He sees Lyanna Mormont’s little face twist when the realization dawns; he feels Sansa’s jaw clench and Arya’s calm face flicker for just a moment.

“With it comes the dead, and their King. This will be a brutal war, one we could not win alone. And we _will_ win it for the sakes of our children, our families – for the seven Kingdoms. And for our rightful Queen.”

If they react he doesn’t hear it over the sound of Longclaw as he draws it from its sheath. Daenerys’ face shifts from concern to shock, one brow arching as he kneels down before her in sight of every Lord and Lady, of his lover and his family, and surrenders the crown they put on his head.

As Daenerys rises from her seat the Lords around him slowly move to follow. Jon doesn’t look at his sisters, doesn’t look at Davos or Tyrion or anyone else. He can feel Sansa’s gaze burning through him and knows the wildlings won’t kneel, least of all his, but it doesn’t matter. They are loyal to Jon, and now Jon belongs to the dragon queen.

He meets those stony eyes and they burn down into the core of him.

_You have so very much to lose, Jon Snow._

He does, and this is the game. So Jon bends the knee to the dragon queen and makes a show of it, makes it undeniable to any watching that she is the Queen he pledges to. He kneels, and puts his body between her and his wildling, puts his sword to her name so it might defend his siblings from her fire. He lays his crown at her feet, and hopes his tithe is enough. He’ll turn her dragonfire to the Night and the cold King that comes with it.

Jon Snow died to save the free folk. His throne will burn to save the rest of them.

The talks of supplies go by in a blur of tense voices and low jibes that have Jon’s teeth aching. Tormund won’t look away from him where he sits at the high table and Jon feels like he’s got fucking fire under his _skin_ now, itches with it as he finally, finally rises and leaves the Great Hall.

For all the buildup in his mind, it was rather lackluster, pledging to a queen that threatened to burn his world to ash.

Jon hears Tormund’s heavy footfalls following him and he steps aside to let the wildling pass him when he pushes the door of their chambers open. And it has become theirs, theirs – this is _theirs_ , and Tormund is _his,_ and Jon’s never felt like this before, never felt the way he thought he ought to when it came to the one he loved.

He leans back against their door and Tormund watches him. Jon slides the lock shut and bites his bottom lip, refusing to look away from the wildling as his heart beats like a war drum in his chest. For a moment, Jon feels like the boy that died in Castle Black, who was fierce and stood toe-to-toe with a wildling that threatened to rip his guts from his throat.

The same wildling that now warmed in his bed, that held whatever was left of his heart in his hand.

_You’re still in there, little crow._

And perhaps he is.

“You leapt from a dragon,” Jon murmurs finally, and his voice sounds as if it’s been scratched raw. “You leapt from a dragon and into the horde to get to me.”

His wildling doesn’t speak and doesn’t look away. Jon unclasps his heavy cloak and tosses it aside, his bracers shortly after.

“You leapt from a dragon, and I fucking knelt to one."

“What did she say to make you do it?” Tormund asks, and he sounds far from accusatory; the exact opposite. He sounds soft, and part of Jon wishes he were shouting.

Jon pushes away from the door. His blood has turned from red to silver to gold, and he can barely breathe as he curls his hands into the black fur vest Tormund wears over his lighter Southern clothes, dark brocade and a steel plate over his huge chest.

The wildling touches him without hesitation, cups his chin in one huge hand and Jon anchors himself in it.

“She’ll stop at nothing to get the throne,” Jon says, “you knew that.”

“Aye. I told you, little crow. Seen her like thousands of times. There will always be a dragon queen, and there will always be a throne to chase.”

“And she’ll burn this entire hold to the ground to make me run to it with her,” Jon murmurs. “She wants my men. The army of the north.”

“No,” Tormund growls low. “She wants _you._ And all the power that comes with you.”

"Then she’ll have it.” He grips the vest tighter, as if it’s the only thing holding him upright, and maybe it is. “She’ll not take you. She won’t have my family, and she won’t have you. I died for you once. I’d do it again.”

It coils between them and Jon feels it when it snaps. He surges up against the wildling and pulls him close at the same time, kissing him with such force he thinks he might be trying to crawl down into Tormund’s lungs and stay there. His lover stutters a growl against his teeth and this – this is how it should always be, Jon thinks as he’s hoisted with ease from the floor.

He thinks it should always be frantic hands and the tear of stitching over the edges of their clothes. Jon hasn’t been to battle, not in weeks, but it feels as if he’s come from one. It should always be like this, always be desperate and clinging, skin dragging over skin with a fear of never meeting again. It should be the tide and the storm, the thunder that shakes the earth, the lightning that paints the sky.

_You have much to lose, Jon Snow._

Jon’s padded tunic grows loose, and he shakes his arms free only to dig his hands back into the wildling’s red hair as his back hits the wall. This is how it should be because this is what it means to be free, to want with fire behind it and not fear it. Jon fought for this and he’ll hold onto it with tooth and claw until it breaks him or kills him. He prays this is the thing that kills him, could only ever dream of a finer death than that at the hands of the man holding him tight.

“ _Fuck,”_ Jon breathes as he shoves the wildling’s tunic down, “let me – I need to touch you, I need –“

“ _Yes,”_ the wildling growls, hands yanking down his breeches and Jon presses into the wall to lift his hips and let his cock spring free. Tormund puts his mouth to Jon’s ear and a shudder rips down his spine.

“You want to remind me who I belong to, little crow?”

“Yes,” he rasps, but the truth is far bigger. He wants to worship what he surrendered for, wants to be taught again that while Daenerys has his life, it’s Tormund that keeps his heart.

Tormund drags him away from the wall and pushes him down into the furs on their bed, still smelling of _them_. Jon pushes and arches powerfully beneath him; the wildling puts a hand to his throat before he rolls onto his back and leans against the headboard, the muscle under his skin rolling and going tense. He pulls Jon over his thighs and Jon loves it, loves that he can move him where he wants, and Jon can do little to stop it. On the throne he wants to die on, Jon sways back to drink him in, and his skin ignites beneath sea-blue.

He splays a hand over the gash running across Tormund’s chest and puts his lips to the one he knows, the pucker on his shoulder he’s spent hours, days trying to forget. The wildling slides a hand into his hair and hums low, but this time, he doesn’t pull him away.

“I put this here,” Jon breathes, and Tormund’s fingers tighten in his curls. “I marked you like this.”

_Duty is the death of love._

Tormund kisses his head and says soothingly into his hair, “aye, little crow. And here I am.”

_Love is the death of duty._

But he is Jon Snow, and he is a wolf. Wolves do not care for duty, or for what should be. They care only for what is theirs, and they will fight to the death to keep it. Jon has died for duty already. This time, he will live and die for love.

He ducks lower, before the guilt can take him, and parts his lips over the wider scar. Tormund growls and his cock is hard beneath Jon, so hard it has to be weeping. It still thrills him, still makes his spine ache and burn to know he can do that, to know he’s the one who gets to see the wildling like this.

“You leapt from a dragon,” he whispers, and this isn’t enough – he’s not close enough, not nearly burrowed as deep as he wants to be. He surges up again, thighs clenching against Tormund’s hips as he kisses him slow and deep and as well as he can. He rolls his hips, cock trapped between their bellies, and groans as pleasure shoots hot and sharp up his spine.

Jon slides a hand over the meat of Tormund’s ribs, chases the small scars there and the gnarled, botched pucker just inches from his spine. The wildling grips one of his hips in a huge hand and grinds up against him and Jon, for an insane moment, wants nothing more than to know what it would feel like against his tongue, because it is _his._

It makes his cheeks burn and his ears go red-hot. His mouth waters and he sinks low to drag his teeth over the myriad of scars lacing the wildling’s stomach. Once the thought grips him, however, Jon can’t seem to shake it. He wonders what Tormund would do, wonders what sort of sounds he could drag from the wildling that others have heard and that – that’s enough to make Jon bold.

“ _Little crow_ –“

His cock is heavy and thick, bigger than Jon’s, but when he flicks out a curious tongue, the wildling’s warning turns into a deep, guttural growl and his hand sinks into Jon’s hair. It sends sparks shooting down his spine, makes his stomach bottomless and his hands shake. He smells of clean skin and sweat, of winter and warmth and sex, and Jon grows bolder when a long groan rolls through the wildling’s stomach when he puts his lips to the shiny head.

It’s messy and thrilling; Jon can’t breathe but he doesn’t care, lust churning through his blood until it boils. The taste of the wildling is rich and tangy, heady and overwhelming. Tormund has licked him clean before, possessive strokes of his tongue he tries to replicate now, and the wildling purrs out a string of warm praise that makes Jon’s hips curve forward.

“Put your hand on me, little crow,” he commands, and Jon does.

There’s power in this, he realizes, a power he’d never considered before. Jon thinks he could make Tormund promise him anything while he’s like this, mouth on his cock and hand working him like his life depends on it. Jon would ask for nothing but this; the wildling growls instead of whines, moans with his chest, muscles flexing tight beneath his skin.

Jon sinks down to the furs, rolling his hips just to relieve some of the tension building up at the base of his spine. His hand is slick with spit and his jaw aches, but he doesn’t stop, not when the wildling’s hips are straining with need and his thighs quiver. Jon looks up as his lover puts his head back and groans like an avalanche, chest flushed and glittering with sweat.

When the wildling pulls at his hair, a warning, Jon doubles his efforts, feverish down his spine and craving the taste of life more than he ever thought he could. Tormund comes undone with a snarl of Jon’s name, heavy, tangy seed rushing down his throat quick enough he almost chokes. It clings to his lips when he pulls back, and Tormund is on him before he can catch his breath, chasing the heat of himself over his tongue.

Then, he’s being flipped onto his belly, firm hands around his hips, and a thrill leaps up his throat and stays there, burning red-hot. Jon gasps as Tormund bows over him, cock already growing hard again against his thigh. A huge hand slides over his throat and Jon tips his head back; the wildling nips at the corner of his mouth and Jon’s muscles burn when he pulls enough to press their mouths together.

To be pinned beneath him is always a thing Jon revels in, but there’s a strength the wildling uses this time he’s not yet felt. One of his arms is bent across the dip of his spine and Tormund keeps it there as he drags the very air from Jon’s lungs, taking and taking, and Jon wants to give him the marrow in his bones.

“So good to me,” the wildling rumbles against his ear, “taking me down like that, taking me into that pretty mouth. I’m going to mount you, Jon Snow, and I’m going to ruin you for any other cunt or cock, until the only thing that could ever make you hard is me.”

“You already _have_ ,” Jon breathes, and this time he almost does growl, the wolf coming out in his voice, “there’s no one but you. No one. I love you.”

It earns him a savage kiss and a rough hand to the swell of his ass, the lewd sound of the smack making his cock jump and drip over the furs. Tormund grips his waist with strong fingers and growls, “good boy,” before he vanishes to fetch oil. Jon stays just as he is, forearm over his spine, and nothing outside the pleasure coursing through him even exists to him.

Nothing exists but the press of Tormund’s bulk over him, but the burn and stretch of precise fingers inside him, and when he finds the nerves that make him shout, Jon actually laughs. The wildling croons praise for it, grin forming against his ear as he works Jon open and gathers him in one place, pins his mind as he does his body.

“You make me _burn_ with it, little crow,” Tormund confesses tightly, “with how much I love you. How much I need you.”

This is _his,_ and when Tormund slides into him, he in turn is owned and completely bound. Jon strains his hips up, seeking more, and the wildling growls low in his ear before he pulls back and slams back into him. Jon shouts and it rolls down into a groan, his teeth aching with it as his lover makes good on his word, as he always does.

In battle, in bed – Tormund is the only thing he trusts, the constant that has kept him pointed north. Jon curls up into him, seeking to get closer, ever closer; the wildling holds him by the arm across his spine and his hip and Jon knows already he’s going to bruise.

He’s going to bruise, painted blue and purple in the shape of his lover’s hands and he can’t think of a better war-paint to bring luck and life to him in the face of the battle to come. Jon keens when he comes so close, so fucking close, full and flush with heat, and the wildling reaches down to cup his cock up against his belly.

“You’d take this for hours, wouldn’t you?” His voice is a scrape of gravel against glass and Jon feels it down to his core. He could never tire of that voice, he thinks, never tire of the roll and the thunder, the passion laced through it. “You’d take me as long as I fucking wanted you to. I’m going to keep you, Jon Snow, steal you away to the north and fuck you whenever I want –“

“ _Yes –“_

“You’re beautiful,” the wildling breathes, and Jon’s breath grows thorns, “you’re so fucking beautiful – I’ve never wanted to take you more than I did when you were red with blood, than when you had hate in your eyes and the wild clenched between your fucking teeth.”

He’s going to be so sore, so fucking sore, but he can’t bring himself to care. Jon digs his hand into the furs and sinks the other into Tormund’s hair when he finally lets him go to splay his huge palms over the inside of his thighs. Pleasure cracks over Jon like a whip and with a keen that comes like a howl he topples over the edge and paints their bed with streaks of pearly white.

Tormund slows his hips, the thick pulse of him making Jon whimper, and the wildling pushes his head down to kiss up the line of his nape. His tongue slides down Jon’s spine, and then it’s between his legs and Jon’s face _burns._ He gasps out Tormund’s name and his thighs clench when the wildling bites down on his ass, hard.

“Never heard anyone sound so needy when they’re being fucked,” Tormund murmurs as he cups Jon’s softening cock, and the touch makes his hips strain. “I’ll take you north and make you _scream_ , Jon Snow.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replies hoarsely.

Gentle hands guide him onto his back and the wildling sinks down between his legs when he beckons him there, hands tangling through his hair. Jon arches to kiss him, fierce determination flooding his gut instead of the grief he’s carried since he woke up from the dark in Castle Black what feels like a lifetime ago.

He chases the sweat over Tormund’s brow, brings his knees up across his hips. The wildling hums and burrows against his throat, hands roving over the flat plain of Jon’s belly and the scars littered across it.

“I know you see it, still,” Jon murmurs, and his wildling grumbles. “I know you see me like that, sometimes.”

Jon tangles his fingers into his beard and knocks their noses together. Tormund kisses his cheek, his temple, his jaw, and Jon won’t let this go. No god or queen or dragon could steal this from him; he is a man that has turned his back on death, and so he will keep Tormund from it.

“You told me you needed me to believe I’d be more than ash when you carried me home,” Jon says against the wildling’s temple, and when Tormund draws back to meet his gaze, Jon smiles faintly and this time it doesn’t hurt. “I do. With you, I do.”

Some of his suffering has only been that; suffering. But some of it – because he is very, very lucky – has made him stronger, and he’ll use that strength for this. For Tormund, for the true north, for his family and the lands that he bled over from the time he came into the world and the time he left it.

He doesn’t intend to leave it before he decides to again.

“You make a man feel like he’s god, Jon Snow,” Tormund says, tracing the swell of his cheek with his thumb. “You make a man feel like fire.”

Jon tastes love on his lips when he kisses him, sweeter than honeywine. There is a game of thrones outside their door and dragons beyond their walls, but Jon has this, and for that, he will fight.

**Author's Note:**

> i want my jon with his usual dose of passion, thank u v much


End file.
